Run
by kokoda2007
Summary: An accident, a concussion, things quickly spiral out of control for Sam when his family fails him. Teen Winchesters.
1. Chapter 1

I know this seems to be a recurring theme of mine, but I thought I'd just go with the flow. Basically, this is some shameless Sam whumpage for _BlueEyedDemonLiz_, for the momentous occasion of her birthday. _Supernaturaldh_ and _Rafikiven_ waved their magic beta wand over this chapter.

**Disclaimer:** Yep, still don't own them …but if I did, I'd share.

**Summary:** An accident, a concussion, things quickly spiral out of control for Sam. Teen Winchesters. Sam 15, Dean 19.

**Warning:** You know they swear occasionally.

**Chapter One**

Sam sat slumped in the corner of the room, warm blood dripping steadily from the cut on his scalp, splashing down the front of his shirt.

He spared a glance around the sparsely furnished room before his eyes settled on the large wall clock hanging askew. He could hear the constant tick tick tick as it struggled to keep consistent time, struggled and failed, always running ten minutes behind. He'd considered changing the batteries or maybe just taking it down, but figured in the long run it wasn't worth the effort. It never was.

If you started changing things you started getting attached. Started to give a damn. Until it was all pulled cruelly away as once again you were forced to move on, leaving everything behind and settle some place new. There were only so many times you could start again until you finally realized that you were the only one who cared, who actually gave a damn.

Everything Sam Winchester owned he could carry slung over one shoulder. He no longer tried to change things, but he still had his dreams, that small glimmer of hope hanging on by a tendril, that belief that things would change. His dreams weren't of owning that large color TV in the store he walked past on the way to school, or the fancy sneakers that a lot of the kids his age wore, no, his dreams were of warmth and comfort and security.

He wanted to belong, to be apart of something. He wanted a dad who was at home more that he was away, someone who came to cheer him on at sports or actually turned up at a parent-teacher conference. He needed to feel that he mattered, that someone actually cared, not just about what he could offer, but the person he really was.

It wasn't goddamn fair. His life wasn't fair. He was just so sick of all the crap he had to put up with.

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead to keep the blood from dripping into his eyes. As he stared blindly at the clock he tried to work out how long he'd been sitting there, bruised and battered, letting the blood splash onto the worn carpet leaving a deep crimson stain. He tried to focus on the clock hands but his vision was fuzzy and refused to cooperate, and he gave up the effort, because really, what did it matter.

Fuckin' drivers with their cheap cars, he thought, as he tried to push himself up from the floor. He scarcely remembered the walk home or how he came to be sitting in the corner with his bag by his side. But he remembered the impact and the red hot pain that tore through him as he hit the pavement. He remembered the harried driver panicked and screaming, and he remembered the fear he felt and the need and urgency to get away.

He was alone and his head hurt. His Dad and Dean weren't due back for a couple of days, maybe not until the end of the week – that is if their current hunt went according to plan. Of course, something could have called them away longer, since the hunt was always more important than Sam.

Being sick or hurt wasn't an option, so he needed to suck it up. They had no insurance, and his Dad sure as hell hadn't left him enough money to cover a trip to the hospital or even the local clinic. Then there'd be forms and questions he just couldn't answer, a parent he couldn't produce and all sorts of hell would be let loose as the authorities got involved. He didn't need to second-guess his actions. Running had been the right choice.

He could get through this. Shit, if he couldn't even take care of a few cuts and bruises how the hell would his Dad ever think he was old enough or strong enough to start hunting with them. Not just getting dragged along on the hunt, but actual hunting. Just once he wanted his dad to suggest that he 'take point' instead of just tag along. He was so goddamn sick and tired of being the lackey who got to carry the gear and keep watch, well out of harms way. He wasn't sure which was worse, being dragged along on a hunt or being tucked away in some crappy apartment; only allowed to leave if he was going to school or picking up something at the nearby store, like some sort of third-world courier boy.

He took a deep breath before levering himself to his feet, taking small unsteady steps into the bathroom.

Resting his elbow on the rim of the porcelain bowl, he propped his head on his hand, supporting the heavy weight. A steady throb persisted, pounding away at his skull, answered by wave after wave of nausea that showed no signs of abating anytime soon. All he could do was sit and wait, praying that an end was in sight.

He spat stringy lengths of saliva into the toilet, gagging as he started to dry retch again, nothing remaining in his stomach to come up. It didn't seem to matter though, his body refused to accept that there was nothing left, leaving his stomach muscles clenching and unclenching as they tried to eject what was no longer there. He almost wished he had something to throw up, the painful dry heaves gaining in intensity and barely allowing him time to take a breath.

When it was over, it was all he could do to slump back against the wall, legs spread out in front of him and arms hanging limply by his side. He felt like crap and he could see no point in making the effort to drag himself out of the bathroom, not yet anyway. Not until he was absolutely sure it was over.

So he rested his head against the wall and closed his eyes.

**-o-**

Waking with a start, he struggled, engulfed in a haze of pain, disorientated and panicked. He blinked, letting his eyes adjust to the lighting, trying to bring his breathing under control as he took stock of his surroundings.

God, he felt like crap.

Kicking off the covers he levered himself to sit up in bed, bruised flesh protesting at the small movements. He felt like he'd only just gone to bed, but the sunlight streaming in through the thin curtains told a different story. He swung his feet to the floor and steadied himself for a moment, poised on the edge of the bed as his vision wavered.

He felt like an eighty year old man as he staggered to his feet, one hand leaning on the wall for support.

**-o-**

The persistent ring tore through the silence and John bit back a curse as he lowered his shotgun and shrugged his pack off his shoulder. He buried his hand deep into his coat pocket, searching for the irritating object. His fingers wrapped around the phone just as it fell silent and he had to restrain himself from tossing it into the dense undergrowth.

He stared at the number displayed as a missed call, searching for some glimmer of recognition. A small beep heralded the arrival of a new message, and with a sigh, he pressed the button and raised it to his ear.

"God dammit," John swore as he listened to the recorded message. _"Usually we wouldn't be so concerned, however considering this is already Sam's tenth absence this term, I find this cause for concern. If you could call me to discuss Sam's attendance…" _

"Dad?" Dean queried, watching the scowl that creased across his dad's forehead.

"So much for some important test at school. Seems like Sam's been playing hooky." John bit out, a scowl etched across his face. He really didn't have the patience for Sam's crap.

"What? Sam missed school?" Dean queried, raising troubled eyes to his father.

"Thinks he can do whatever the hell he wants to just because no one's there watching his back. God damn kid's gonna get a wake up call when we get back, let me tell you. Won't know what the hell hit him when I get my hands on him." John heaved his pack back onto his shoulders and stormed ahead.

**-o-**

Sam stood, braced in the doorway, struggling to keep his balance as he looked up at the wall clock. It confirmed what he already knew – he was late for school. He couldn't believe that he'd managed to sleep away most of yesterday afternoon plus the entire night. He could have cursed himself for forgetting to set his alarm clock, for sleeping in …for everything. It seemed like fate was conspiring against him and he was just going along for the ride.

His vision swam as he turned around too quickly, head throbbing and stomach protesting. He raised a hand up to his temple, feeling his way through dried blood to the scalp wound nestled beneath his hair. A large raised lump had already formed, tender to the touch, but fortunately no longer bleeding. He really needed to clean up.

He stumbled towards the bathroom, eager to wash away yesterday's filth and grime. Maybe scrubbed clean, wearing fresh clothes, he could pretend that yesterday never happened.

Pulling his tee-shirt over his head, he tossed it onto the bathroom floor, his other clothes quickly following. Reaching into the shower, he turned the water on full blast, waiting with impatience for it to heat up.

A cursory glance in the mirror confirmed that he looked a wreck; caked blood matting his hair, bruising marred his neck and shoulder. His body struck hard by the cold metal of the hit and run driver. Unfortunately, he didn't feel any better than he looked.

**-o-**

Clean, but feeling none the fresher, Sam sank back down on the edge of the bed, letting the mattress absorb his weight. He willed his body to find the energy to keep moving, but sheer determination seemed to have little effect and his strength deserted him, leaving him dizzy and tired.

He brushed his damp hair away from his face, regretful that the long hot shower seemed to have had little effect in waking him up fully. His mind still seemed muddled with sleep, his limbs lethargic and slow.

Giving in, he lowered the rest of his body on to the bed, curling onto his side and cushioning his head on the pillow. He was already so late for school, a little longer would make no difference. The house was still and silent, taunting him with the lure of sleep. He let his eyes close, no longer fighting his body's needs, welcoming the drift into oblivion.

The sun was high in the sky when he woke again. He blinked against the light streaming in through the streaked window, flecks of dust floating in the rays of sunlight beaming across the room and hitting his face. He twisted with a groan against the unwelcome intrusion, wanting nothing more than to bury himself under the blankets and go back to sleep.

He threw a hand across his face, blocking out the light, trying to ignore his surroundings. The persistent ache throbbing through his body, combined with the pressing need of his bladder finally prompted him to admit defeat. Some things couldn't be ignored, not for long anyway.

Stiff muscles protested as he swung his feet to the floor, but he ignored their complaint, pushing himself up off the bed. He swallowed hastily as his vision swam and stomach lurched, leaning one hand against the wall to steady himself.

He cursed his weakness. Hating it. He felt like he should have greater command over his own body, his movements and reactions. Taking a few deep breaths he closed his eyes and fought for control, seeking out his inner strength. He could do this.

When he opened his eyes again the room was still and for the moment at least, his stomach had settled. With his teeth gritted tight against the anticipated pain, he let go of the wall and walked, one foot in front of the other, slowly making his way towards the bathroom.

School wasn't going to be happening today, he decided, leaning against the bathroom sink. Hell, it was almost over anyway. Even if he dressed and left now, he'd be lucky to get there much before the final bell.

**-o-**

**Reviews are love.**

Next chapter will be ready in a couple of days.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary:** An accident, a concussion, things quickly spiral out of control for Sam. Teen Winchesters. Sam 15, Dean 19.

**Notes:** Thank you to all the wonderful reviewers – you all keep me inspired and writing. Amazing beta skills supplied by _Supernaturaldh_ and _Rafikiven._

**Warnings:** Occasional swear words. Shameless John bashing.

**Chapter 2**

Sam curled up on the couch, knees pressed into his chest as he tried to fit comfortably into the too small space. A small groan escaped, but he clenched his teeth, hating the outward display of weakness. He'd stuffed up so bad, but feeling sorry for himself wasn't going to change matters. With everything else happening out there, all the monsters he wished were only in his nightmares, he just couldn't quite believe the irony; that he'd been hit by a friggin' car on the way home from school.

Bad luck seemed be following him around, looking for an excuse to trip him up or pull him down. He couldn't help but think how things would have been different, if only he'd been walking on the other side of the street, of left school five minutes later, or maybe just been walking faster. Maybe he should have stuck around; made sure nobody else was hurt, instead of panicking and running home. It was so easy to second guess the decisions he had made, to wonder if he made the right choices, but at the end of the day, it was too late now. Too late to change anything, and thinking about it just increased the dull throbbing in his head.

He pulled up the corner of his shirt, looking at the mottled bruises decorating his side. The coloring was deepening, and as he ran his hand gently over the marked skin, he could feel the warmth. It would be days, weeks even, until they faded, taking the pain away with them.

**-o-**

John tossed his gear and weapons into the truck with undisguised exhaustion. It had been a long and gruelling couple of days, and he'd be the first to admit that he was glad this hunt was over. He glanced across at Dean, seeing the weary way his eldest held his shoulders as he leant his heavy head on his folded arms, resting against the roof of the car. Tiredness emitted from the very core of Dean's body, a slow lift of his head the only visible reaction to the slamming of the Impala's trunk.

"Toss me the keys son." John prompted; walking around to the driver's side and wrenching open the door.

"Yeah, I've had enough camping to last me a goddamn lifetime. Christ, I hate camping." Dean muttered as he stood up straight, rotating his shoulders as he ran a hand through the thick spikes of his hair. He was dead tired and right now even the smallest of steps seemed like a gigantic effort. He wanted nothing more than to sleep for a week. It was the thought of a hot shower and a warm bed that encouraged his feet to move, motivating him to drag himself those final few steps into the car.

John watched his son's slow movements, appreciating the hundred percent effort that Dean had put into the hunt. All things considered, things had gone smoothly, hiking through the rough terrain being the most strenuous element of the whole hunt. Killing the deranged beast had been little more than a couple of well aimed bullets to the heart, but good field practice for Dean none the less. Although Sam hadn't really been needed this time, it would have been an invaluable experience for him also. Training only went so far and it was the simple hunts, still with that edge of unknown danger that helped to hone their hunting skills.

Thinking of Sam back at the house, shirking his duties, sent a shaft of disappointment through him, and his feeling of fatherly pride dwindled. Sam's truancy just wasn't good enough, wasn't even close to acceptable, and it was past time he did something about it.

**-o-**

As tempting as it had been to stop at a motel for some much needed rest, John had decided to drive the couple of hours back to the house without a rest break, just swinging through the drive-through a couple of blocks from the rental to pick up some food. As he pulled up in front of the house he blinked tiredly, his heavy lids feeling like rough sandpaper as they rubbed against his bloodshot eyes. Too often now he was starting to feel his age, years of hunting was starting to take a toll.

He glanced across at Dean, slumped awkwardly in the seat beside him. His eldest had drifted off mere minutes after they'd hit the road and now it seemed like it would take more than the stilling of the car engine to rouse him from the deep sleep.

"Dean?" Reaching across the seat, he placed a firm hand on his son's shoulder. "Dean," he repeated, shaking gently. "Come on son, time to get a move on. We're home."

He watched with amusement as Dean sluggishly responded, a testament to his son's exhaustion. Usually it only took one word, one sound, for Dean to snap awake, at once on full alert as if every sound was a potential threat.

Opening his door and stepping onto the gravel driveway, John took a moment to lean back inside the car. "Unless you plan on sleeping in there, now'd be a good time to make a move."

"I hear ya." Dean grumbled, opening the door and pushing himself out of the car.

**-o-**

The rumble of the Impala was distinct, even competing against the rowdy sounds from the program on the television. Sam reached for the remote, dimming the sound on the show he hadn't really been watching. He couldn't help but take one final glance around the room, checking that everything was in place, that the salt lines were undisturbed, that his dad could find no cause to complain.

He felt a sense of relief that Dean and his dad were back. Not just that they were home safe, but that he was no longer alone.

His limbs felt heavy, a dead weight as he pushed himself to a sitting position, swinging his feet onto the floor. His fingers gripped the edge of the couch, digging into worn fabric and uncovered foam as he grimaced against the pain, struggling to bring it under control. After doing nothing all day, he'd hoped that he'd be feeling a little better, but it seemed his bruised body had a different agenda.

He'd planned to be on his feet when the door opened, but his body was too slow to react to his commands. He felt like he was running through deep water, the will was there, but the effort needed was magnified.

"Dad," he greeted as the door swung wide, automatically looking past his father to catch sight of his older brother. He felt the relief wash over him as he saw Dean trailing behind, looking grubby and worn out, but not bloody or broken.

**-o-**

One look at his son, reclining on the couch, and John felt his jaw clench in barely suppressed anger.

"Sam," he replied, eyes scanning the room as he stepped forward. "No problems when we were gone?" He asked, testing him, but anticipating his son's blatant lie with a sense of disappointment. He had little doubt that Sam was none the wiser about his short telephone call from the school.

"Ah…" Sam stuttered, picking up on the anger in his dad's question, looking around the room in a panic, wondering what he could have forgotten.

"Didn't think so." John turned his back on his youngest. He wanted to rip into his son, but his eyes were heavy with exhaustion and he didn't have the energy to do this right now, not without turning it into a yelling match.

John dumped the bag of take-out on the table, feeling his stomach rumble in anticipation as he breathed in the scent of burgers and fries. "Eat before it gets cold."

Dean didn't need to be told twice. "Hey Sammy," he greeted, barrelling towards the table with new found energy.

Sam pushed himself to standing, glad that his dad and Dean had their backs to him. Thankfully the wave of dizziness passed quickly and he let go of the edge of the couch and walked to the table, pasting a mask of normality on his face.

"So Sammy, get yourself a girlfriend when we were gone?" Dean looked across at Sam, anticipating his response.

Sam blushed red. "What? …No."

Dean watched the red sweep across Sam's face and couldn't help but tease him further. "I'm just asking, 'cause you…"

"Dean!" John reprimanded. "Leave it. This has got nothing to do with you."

"I'm just asking." Dean couldn't resist adding before falling silent after another stern look from his father.

**-o-**

Sam wasn't sure what was going on, but you could cut the tension in the room with a knife. He kept glancing between his dad and brother, waiting for some sort of clue, but they both kept their heads down, focused on eating. They were keeping something from him, he could tell. He searched them both with his eyes, looking for some sort of hidden injury, but could find nothing.

"So, ah, how'd the hunt go?" Sam ventured when curiosity finally got the better of him.

"Piece of cake Sammy, piece of cake. That thing was one fugly son of a bitch though, let me tell you."

"Dean." John admonished.

"Yeah, as I was saying, real ugly. Tuffs of fur and patches of skin, like a giant rat with scabies. Arrgghh." Dean gave an exaggerated shiver. "Friggin' army rations though, Christ, that stuff should be illegal," he declared, stuffing a handful of greasy fries into his mouth.

"Sounds like you had fun."

"And how was school Sam? You do okay on that important test?" John watched as the color bleached from Sam's face.

Sam felt his heart stop. He'd completely forgotten about the test he was supposed to have sat today. It was worth nearly half of the semester's marks and he had no idea if he'd be able to make it up.

"I ah…"

"Cut the bullshit son. You and I both know you didn't bother showing up at school today."

"How?" Sam mumbled, keeping his eyes downcast.

"What I want to know; is what the hell you thought was so important that you not only blew off school, but you skipped coming along with your brother and me?" John demanded, banging his hand on the table with a resounding thump.

"It's not what you think." Sam whispered, raising his eyes to look at his dad.

John leant both hands on the table edge and pushed himself to his feet, eyes never leaving his youngest. "You know what, you think about what you've got to say for yourself, 'cause the way I'm feeling right now, there ain't nothing you could say to make this right."

"I…" Sam started, falling silent when his dad raised his hand.

"Save it." John shook his head in dismissal. "I really don't want to hear it. I'm too damn tired to deal with your crap right now."

"But dad -"

"I said 'save it' Sam. I'll deal with you tomorrow." John didn't try to hide the threat his words implied. "I'll see you boys in the morning," he directed at both his sons before turning away and walking slowly from the room, shoulders hunched with exhaustion.

Dean watched their father leave the room "Way to go Sam. You sure know how to rub dad up the wrong way. Real knack you've got going there."

Sam looked at his older brother, seeking an ally. "He didn't even give me a chance to explain."

"And what exactly was it that you were going to explain Sam. How you lied and said you had some big important test, that god help us all, you just couldn't miss? How you couldn't possibly skip a few days of school? Or how the hell you think everything revolves around you and what you want? You know what? Dad and I worked our asses off. I had to sleep on the goddamn ground two nights running. I'm tired, covered in dirt and god only knows what else, and this is the first decent meal I've had since we left. You really think dad, or me, want to listen to what you've got to say? Do you?" Dean rubbed a hand across his face, feeling a little guilty for snapping, but too tired to restrain his tongue.

Sam clenched his jaw tight, fingers gripping the edge of his chair as the shock of Dean's words washed over him.

"Christ Sam, I didn't mean it." Dean apologised. "I'm just tired, you know?"

"Yeah." Sam whispered, desperately keeping the tears at bay.

"I'm ah, gonna grab a shower 'nd hit the sack." Dean stood, stretched, and took a few steps away before looking back. "G'night Sam."

"G'night Dean." Sam said; letting the first tear fall as his brother walked away.

**-o-**

**Reviews are love!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary:** An accident, a concussion, things quickly spiral out of control for Sam. Teen Winchesters. Sam 15, Dean 19.

**Warning:** A few isolated swear words.

**Notes:** Many many thanks to everyone who reviewed – I appreciate the time you take to send me your comments more than I can say.

_Awesome beta skills supplied by Supernaturaldh. I added so much after she worked her magic, so all remaining mistakes are mine (and I've been up since 4am)._

**Chapter 3**

Sam jerked awake with a start, heart pounding in his chest as he searched the room with his eyes, wondering what had woken him. A quick look at the adjacent bed showed Dean splayed out with the covers kicked off, dead to the world.

The sounds of clanking coming from the kitchen, followed closely by the smell of freshly brewed coffee alerted him to his dad's location.

He groaned, wanting nothing more than to crawl back under the covers and go back to sleep. A glance at the bedside clock confirmed that it was still early, barely dawn, and he had to rack his brain to remember what day of the week it was. With a sigh of relief, he realized it was Saturday, so there was no need to get up and get organized for school.

He closed his eyes and buried his face against the pillow and let himself drift again.

"Sam." John shook his son's shoulder, but Sam only buried his face deeper into the pillow.

John leant down and aligned his mouth at the side of his son's head. "Sam!" He demanded; his voice sharp and urgent, hand shaking Sam's shoulder as he proceeded to wake his youngest.

"Mmmmm? Yeah?" Sam muttered perplexedly as he tried to roll away from the intrusion.

John bristled at the lack of coherency. "Snap to it Sam and get your ass out of bed."

"Huh?"

"I said; get your ass out of bed Sam, now!" John pulled the pillow out from under Sam's head, forcing Sam's face to thud back onto the firm mattress. John tossed the pillow onto the floor, seeing that he'd finally roused his son enough that Sam's eyes squinted up at him.

"Dad?" Sam raised himself up on his elbows, clenching his teeth against the pain that reignited in his abdomen. He looked up at his dad, waiting for some sort of explanation.

"Kitchen, two minutes." John ordered.

Sam cringed at the tone of his father's voice, wondering what he'd done to ignite such wrath so early in the morning. As he pushed himself to a sitting position, he ran through his chore list in his mind, trying to figure out if he'd missed something important. Then he remembered the expression on his dad's face the night before, the look of disappointment, the things he'd said. _"There ain't nothing you could say to make this right." _One glance at his dad's face and he knew a good night's sleep had changed nothing. "_I'll deal with you tomorrow,"_ his dad's words echoed in his head, and he supposed, this was it then.

"Dad?" Dean muttered from across the room, blinking hesitantly awake.

"Go back to sleep Dean," John prompted.

Dean mumbled a few words before pulling his blankets up and rolling onto his stomach, needing no further prompting as he settled back under the covers, already halfway back to sleep.

**-o-**

Shooting longing glances at his rumpled bed, Sam dragged on clothes and shoes, before slowly making his way into the kitchen.

He saw his dad standing by the sink, nursing a steaming mug of coffee between both hands. At least he knew lack of caffeine wasn't adding to his dad's early morning temper spat. His eyes roamed, coming to rest on the open box of cereal, milk, bowl and spoon laid out on the kitchen table. He looked between the table and his dad, confused. It had been more years than he cared to count since his dad had made him breakfast.

"Don't just stand there. Eat some breakfast. Training starts in ten minutes." John looked at his sluggish son, noting the half asleep dazed look on his face.

"Huh?"

John bristled. "Don't make me repeat myself Sam."

One more glance at his dad and Sam dropped onto a chair, and pulled the box of cereal towards him. "I'm not really hungry," he muttered, pouring a small amount of cereal into his bowl.

John rested his elbows on the kitchen counter, observing his son. Sam looked worn out, dark rings circling his eyes, and if John hadn't known any better, he'd swear his youngest son had pulled an all-nighter at the local bar. It didn't look as though much studying had been going on in his absence.

"I don't give a damn about whether or not you're hungry Sam, but don't come whining to me later, wanting something to eat."

Sam poured a splash of milk into his bowl, picked up his spoon, and stirred the contents around. He scooped out a portion and raised it from the bowl, dropping it back down as his stomach churned.

"So, ah, training?" Sam looked at his dad, questioning, hoping that he'd heard wrong.

"Unless there's something else, more important, you've got to be doing?"

"No." Sam looked into his cereal.

"Some studying maybe? Or maybe you'd like to fill me in on what exactly you were doing this week when you were supposed to be at school?" John looked at his son, trying to judge his reaction. "Or perhaps you thought I wouldn't find out; that you could do whatever the hell you liked and I'd be none the wiser."

"How? How'd you know?" Sam tensed, glancing up.

"What, you thought the school wouldn't notice that you didn't turn up, wouldn't phone to see what was going on? It's hard enough that you have to miss school when we're moving around Sam, but to skip it for no better reason –"

"It was just one day." Sam looked up at his dad. "I wasn't –."

"Just one day, and you think that makes it alright? I trusted you Sam. Against my better judgment I let you stay home, seeing as that test seemed so damn important to you." John shook his head. "I expected better from you Sam."

"I wasn't feeling well." Sam whispered, staring down at the table.

"Cut the bullshit Sam. You know, I phoned the house yesterday afternoon to let you know we were on our way back. And you know what? The phone rang out. So I guess there was no one home. So tell me, what was it that was more important than school? …Some girl?"

"No." Sam blushed despite himself. "When you called, maybe I was in the shower or –"

"I tried a few times Sam. No answer every time."

"Oh." Sam tried to think back, but most of the day before had passed in a fuzzy blur.

"That's all you've got to say? You didn't think your brother and I would worry? Wouldn't wonder what the hell was going on when we couldn't get hold of you?" John demanded.

"I didn't think–"

"Yeah, you didn't think Sam, that's the problem. Eat your breakfast and meet me outside in five." John instructed, dumping his empty mug in the sink before grabbing his duffel bag and striding away without a backwards glance.

Sam watched his dad walk away. Once again, he'd barely been given the chance to explain. It was obvious his dad had made up his own mind and wasn't interested in listening to anything more Sam had to say.

Swishing his spoon through the soggy cereal one more time, Sam pushed the bowl away, knowing he wasn't going to be able to stomach even a mouthful. Just looking at the glutinous lumps made him feel nauseous. He positioned his elbows on the edge of the table and let his head fall to rest, cradled in his hands. Closing his eyes, he took a few deep breaths, trying to prepare himself for whatever training his dad had in store.

He had no doubt about what his dad was planning. Punishment, pure and simple.

**-o-**

Sam squinted against the early morning light as he stepped outside. It felt as though the sharp rays were piercing his head, and the persistent headache that had dimmed to a dull thud overnight picked up its pace once again.

His dad was tapping his foot impatiently against the ground, kicking up the dust, acting as though he'd been kept waiting hours rather than just a few minutes.

He wanted to turn tail and run, but knew there was no escape. His dad would hunt him down, and of one thing he was sure, he'd be found, and it wouldn't be pretty.

"Sam." John looked at his youngest son, taking in the lazy way he slumped his shoulders and dragged his feet. "Look alive."

"Yes sir."

"You know that park on the other side of town where we've trained a couple of times?" John asked.

"Yes." Sam answered, picturing the expanse of untended land that backed onto the highway.

John reached into his duffel and pulled out a bottle of water, handing it to Sam. "I'll meet you there."

Sam stared at his dad in disbelief. "But, that's all the way across town."

John tossed the duffel into the back of the truck. "Don't keep me waiting too long," he instructed, opening the door and sliding in behind the wheel. Starting the engine, he let it purr, opening the window to let in the fresh morning air. "And Sam, don't forget to warm up," John reminded as he eased his foot down on the accelerator and pulled away. His eyes flicked to the rear vision mirror, showing Sam standing rooted in the same spot, surrounded by a cloud of dust. "Get a move on son," he muttered under his breath as he drove away.

**-o-**

Sam barely managed to choke back a sob as he willed his feet to keep moving, to keep holding up his body, to keep him upright. He kept his head lowered, focused on the pavement and little else. The edges were fuzzy and he let his vision tunnel, only needing to see that next step in front of his feet.

He stumbled, again, imaginary cracks appearing out of nowhere to trip him up. He reached out to the wire fence at his side, fingers latching on and catching, just as his body threatened to tip forwards. He raised his other hand, bringing the water bottle to his mouth and draining the last couple of inches of tepid water.

It came straight back up, warm and putrid.

Stepping away he gagged and spat, desperate to rid his mouth of the foul taste. He shook the water bottle, looking for a few hidden drops, but it was completely empty. He let it fall to the ground with a clatter.

He closed his eyes and gulped in deep breaths of morning air, trying to tap into some hidden strength he couldn't seem to find.

He needed to be strong. Needed to prove himself.

He could do this.

Maybe then his dad would give him a chance. A chance to explain.

Maybe listen to what he had to say. Give a damn.

Wiping the sweat off his forward with the back of his hand, he opened his eyes again and looked at the long expanse of the concrete path that stretched out in front of him. It wasn't far now, he was almost there. He was sure of it. Squaring his shoulders, he set off again, each step taking him that much closer to the finish line.

**-o-**

His head pounded in time with his feet hitting the pavement. He could feel the impact of every step sending a shock-wave through his body.

The park was in view now, an oasis at the end of the street. He wanted to pick up his pace, get there quicker, but his legs refused to obey the simple command, so he trudged on, his pace little faster than a walk now.

There was his dad, sitting reading the newspaper on the timber bench marred with graffiti and worn with age. His dad looked hard and dangerous, even in the rough setting, and he doubted anyone would bother him if he sat there all day.

His dad's quick glance up from the newspaper was the only acknowledgment he received as he entered the park. He stopped a few feet away from the bench, hunched over with his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He wanted to ask for water, but his parched tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth and he couldn't get the words out.

John folded the newspaper and glanced at his watch. "You stop for a milkshake on the way?"

Sam shook his head in denial, regretting the action when his vision wavered and stomach rebelled. "No," he rasped out, licking his lips, looking for moisture.

John stood with a weary sigh. "Get in the truck Sam; you can practice sparring with your brother when we get home." He glanced down to the folded newspaper in his hand. "I think I've found our next hunt."

**-o-**

Sam closed the bathroom door behind him, flicking the lock into place.

Welcoming the privacy, he let his mask drop, no longer needing to maintain a façade. He'd never been more grateful that his dad had found a new hunt, giving him a short reprieve, of what he could only class as punishment.

He leant against the sink, turning on the faucet and drinking thirstily. His head was pounding and he gripped the edge of the sink tighter as a burst of vertigo hit him, nearly sending him face first into the wall as he lost his balance. He closed his eyes and sucked in lungfuls of air, waiting for the weakness to pass.

When he opened his eyes again, the room had stopped spinning and he released his death-grip on the sink. The run had drained him, sapping him of every ounce of energy until he could barely think straight. Could barely stand straight.

Opening the cabinet, he snagged the bottle of Tylenol, quickly swallowing two with a handful of water. It couldn't hurt.

**-o-**

Freshly showered, wearing clean sweats and a t-shirt, Sam made his way into the kitchen. He felt a guilty rush of relief, seeing his dad nowhere in sight, just Dean sitting at the table, munching on a slice of toast.

"Where's dad?" He asked, taking a seat opposite Dean.

"G'morning to you too Sammy," Dean mumbled sarcastically, toast crumbs scattering. "Research," he added, looking across the table.

"Oh."

"Don't get too excited. Dad said we've got to spend the rest of the morning training, sparring and stuff." Dean smiled, taking another bite of toast.

"But, dad's not here."

"So?" Dean wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed his empty plate away.

"I just thought –."

"Dad said to train; we train, simple as that." Dean declared, scraping his chair back and rising to his feet. "And there's no time like now to get started."

Sam held his arm across his stomach as he felt his stomach churn, those huge gulps of water threatening to make a reappearance. Black spots danced across his vision, and he blinked, trying to chase them away. "Dean, I really don't feel good."

**-o-**

**Reviews are love.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary:** An accident, a concussion, things quickly spiral out of control for Sam. Teen Winchesters. Sam 15, Dean 19.

**Notes:** A giant thank you to everyone who reviewed. I'm so sorry I didn't get around to replying (real life has kept me very busy over the past few days), but every comment was very much cherished and appreciated.

Again, awesome beta skills supplied by Supernaturaldh.

**Chapter ****4**

Dean knew their dad had dragged Sam out of bed at the crack of dawn and made him run to the outskirts of town. It was only the fact that an article in the local newspaper had piqued their dad's interest that had called an early halt to the morning's planned training session. A session Dean had been instructed to take over and told not to cut Sam any slack. Apparently, Sam lacked discipline, and an increased training schedule was their dad's answer to fixing that little problem.

Dean stopped and looked at his brother.

Really looked.

And he didn't like what he saw.

"What happened? What did dad do?"

"What? Nothing. Please Dean; I just want to lie down for a bit."

"You look kind of pale." Dean muttered, walking over to Sam and placing a hand across his forehead. "Don't feel warm."

"Headache." Sam stated, letting his eyes drift closed for a minute.

"How long? You take anything for it?" Dean asked, dropping his hand away from Sam's forehead, leaning one hip against the table as he stared at Sam.

Feeling his brother's stare, Sam blinked his eyes back open. "Couple of days, and yeah, I took some Tylenol."

"Maybe you need something stronger, some of the good stuff."

"I just need to lie down for a bit." Sam brought a hand up to rub his temple. "Please Dean."

"So, headache huh? Is that why you missed school yesterday?" Dean queried.

"Ah, yeah." Sam blinked, trying to focus as the blood drained from his head and the room spun a slow lazy dance.

Griping the edge of the table with both hands, Sam stood, letting the chair scrape backwards. He needed to get away, before he humiliated himself and threw up all over his brother.

Letting go of his white knuckled grip on the table, Sam stepped and turned, stumbling, disorientated as the room tilted and wavered. His body swayed, trying to compensate, trying to find some balance, but his disorientation only increased and he was forced to grip the table once again.

"Whoa," Dean muttered, reaching out to grip Sam's shoulder to steady him.

"Dean," Sam pleaded, swallowing the saliva pooling in his mouth. "Sick," he swallowed again, gagging as he raised a hand to his mouth.

"Shit." Dean cursed under his breath, wrapping an arm under Sam's shoulders and dragging him towards the bathroom.

Kicking open the bathroom door, Dean didn't stop until they were in front of the toilet, where he eased Sam down onto his knees.

Sam leant one hand on the wall to keep steady as he hung his head over the porcelain bowl. He spat out stringy strings of saliva, hating the feeling of the moisture pooling in his mouth, the tingling in the back of his throat, the rising in his stomach. He knew what was coming.

He could see Dean, out of the corner of his eye, hovering, watching, and he felt a flush of mortification. "I'm okay now," he whispered, hoping Dean would take the hint.

"Clearly Sam, you're a walking advertisement for health and vitality." The sarcasm dripped from Dean's words as he stood, uncertain.

Sam gagged as his body dry heaved. "Please Dean," Sam begged, waving Dean away with his free hand.

Thankful that his breakfast had consisted of little more than plain toast, Dean felt his own stomach clench at the sound of his brother gagging. "Okay, just yell if you need me," Dean trod a hasty retreat, as Sam leant over the toilet and started dry heaving in earnest.

As the door swung back on its hinges following Dean's departure, Sam finally gave in to his body's demands, no longer fighting against the sickness, instead letting the tears flow from the corners of his eyes and just letting it come.

**-o-**

Wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, Sam groaned, thankful the bout of retching was over.

The headache which had been throbbing before now pounded against the back of his eyes, relentless, like a giant axe chopping through his skull. He wanted to crawl out of his skin and find some relief.

Still on his knees, he reached up and flushed the toilet, flipping the lid closed before dropping his elbows down on the grimy surface. He wanted to get up, to move away, but knew he'd most likely fall flat on his face if he even tried. Everything was still spinning.

He closed his eyes, crossed his arms, and laid his whirling head against them, hoping to alleviate the sensation if he blocked it out for long enough.

**-o-**

Dean paced the hallway, trying not to listen to the sounds of gut wrenching vomiting coming from within the bathroom.

Finally, hearing the toilet flush and hoping Sam was done, he made his way back towards his brother, pushing open the bathroom door and entering.

Sam sat slumped exactly where he had left him, pale and washed out, only the slight lifting of his head acknowledgment that he was no longer alone.

"Hey Sam, done?" Dean dropped down onto his haunches beside his brother, stomach rolling at the rancid odor of sickness.

"Yeah." Sam whispered; his voice hoarse and scratchy.

Dean looked at the small splatters of vomit decorating the front of Sam's shirt. "Come on then, let's get you cleaned up and into bed." Dean stood, reaching down to help tug Sam on to his feet when his little brother made no effort to move.

Sam stood, leaning into his brother, fingers clutching onto the front of Dean's shirt, afraid that if he let go, he'd fall.

"Come on Sam, work with me here." Dean urged, reaching to undo the buttons running down the front of Sam's shirt.

Sam let Dean strip him of his outer shirt, too exhausted to offer any resistance, too tired to help.

"Need to work on your aim, little brother," Dean stated, tossing the stained shirt into the corner of the room.

Dean dragged Sam out of the bathroom and guided him towards the bedroom. Pulling back the covers, he helped Sam climb into bed.

"Thanks Dean," Sam mumbled, curling onto his side and burying his head into the pillows. He gave a deep sigh as his body melted into the soft warmth, no longer needing to stay strong.

Dean stood by the bed, unmoving, a frown of concern marring his face as he watched Sam.

**-o-**

Sam drifted for a while, curled on his side, blankets wrapped securely around him. His dreams were full of vivid splashes of color, jolting him awake, before he drifted under again, exhausted as he sought peace, a restful sleep.

Sometimes Dean was there when he woke, a cool hand on his forehead, a glass of water pressed against his lips, quiet words lulling him back to sleep.

When he woke again, it was the pain that hit him first, then the realization that he was alone. He squirmed under the covers, trying to ease the agony, but it refused to relinquish its assault on his body. He moved a hand across his abdomen, finding bruised flesh through the thin layer of cotton. He pressed the heel of his palm in gently, gasping as pain rocked through his body, stealing his breath away

He was scared.

Maybe he needed a doctor.

**-o-**

"Dad." Dean confronted his dad as soon as John entered the kitchen.

"Not now Dean." John tossed his weapons bag onto the table.

"I think something's wrong with Sam." Dean continued, striving to break through his dad's indifference.

John glanced up from the knife he was unsheathing. "What do you mean?" John muttered, returning his attention to the knife, running a finger along the polished blade.

"I mean, Sam's sick dad." Dean persisted.

John re-sheathed the knife and laid it down, looking back at Dean as he rubbed a hand across his brow, smoothing out the lines etched there. "He was fine this morning."

"How would you know dad. Did you ask? Did you even look?"

"He would have said something." John excused.

Dean snapped. "No he wouldn't. You know Sam dad, he'd be the last one to complain about something like that."

"You're right, I know Sam, so don't you go telling me what I did or didn't do." John paused, angry at the accusations being tossed at him. "More importantly, where is Sam? Shouldn't you two be training? If I find out that he's shirking off again, so help me, I'll make it so that he'll think today's run was just a walk in the park."

"Are you listening to me dad?" Dean demanded, stepping up close to the table and bracing both palms against it as he leaned in closer to his father. "Sam's sick!"

**-o-**

Sam looked up as the bedroom door opened, admitting his brother, his dad following a few steps behind.

"Dean," he greeted, feeling a rush of relief that his brother was back. "Dad," he murmured, looking past Dean, swallowing back his trepidation as he took in the stern expression blazoned across his father's face.

"Hey Sam, how ya feeling?" Dean asked, moving to perch on the edge of the bed, his hand grazing across Sam's forehead.

Sam's eyes flicked from Dean to his Dad. "I ah…" Sam swallowed, hesitating.

"So Sam, Dean tells me you're sick. That right son?" John stepped in closer, to stand at the side of the bed, looking down.

Sam gave a small nod of assent.

John gave a heavy sigh as he looked at his son, eyes running across the figure huddled under the covers. "He running a temperature?" John looked across at Dean.

Dean flattened his palm over Sam's forehead. "No, I don't think so."

"Humph," John mumbled.

Dean dropped his hand from Sam's forehead and jostled back to sit more comfortably on the bed.

Sam gasped as Dean bounced on the bed, feeling the impact reverberate through his body. His fingers bunched into the covers as he rode through the wave of pain. "I …I think something's wrong," he whispered, a stray tear leaking from the corner of one eye.

"Sammy?" Dean and John spoke in unison.

"Hurts," Sam raised pleading eyes, begging for help.

"Where?" John demanded, seeing the abject misery on Sam's face, the lines of pain he made no effort to hide.

"Everywhere." Sam mumbled, head rolling back.

"Where Sam? Tell me." Dean pleaded, pulling back the covers.

John rolled Sam onto his back, ignoring the low grunt of pain it elicited, holding his son firm as Sam tried to turn back onto his side.

"Stomach," Sam moaned.

Dean pulled Sam's shirt up, blanching as he saw the vivid bruises marking Sam's skin.

John's face lost all color as a gazed at his son. _What the hell?_

"No," Sam tried to cringe away as Dean ran an unsteady hand over the bruises.

"God Sammy," Dean muttered, taking in the extent of the bruising.

"Where? Where's it hurt Sam?" John asked, voice firm but gentle as he eased in closer to his youngest. The bruising was dark and angry and he wanted to reach out and erase it from his son's body. He felt a sudden surge of anger - and he wanted to know what had happened and he wanted answers. He clenched his teeth and looked away from the bruises and into his son's eyes, saw the pain and fear, and he pushed his anger aside, guilt rushing up to take its place. "Where Sam?" He repeated, needing to take away the pain etched across Sam's face and make things right, to fix this.

Sam swept his fingers across his abdomen, pausing over the area causing him the most pain. "There."

John laid his palm over the spot Sam indicated, feeling the rigidity, the unnatural tightness of the stomach muscles when he pressed down.

"Dean, go start the car." John ordered.

Dean gave Sam's shoulder a quick squeeze before racing to obey.

"I've got to move you Sam." John apologized, sliding an arm under Sam's shoulders and another fisting the front of his shirt as he levered Sam to a sitting position.

"Dad?" Sam groaned, leaning against the supporting arm. Sam wanted to lie back down as the dizziness threatened to overwhelm him. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, hanging on to his dad as the room tilted and wavered.

John looked at his son, seeing the coltish long legs and the extra height he'd sprouted up over the last few months. "Do you think you can walk?"

Sam nodded. "Yes," he affirmed, unsure of the truth of his statement.

One hand still fisted in the front of Sam's shirt, the other hooked under his arm, John pulled, hauling Sam onto his feet.

Sam gasped, bending over slightly and wrapping an arm around his middle. He kept the other hand latched firmly on to his dad, leaning on him, threatening to send them both toppling.

With barely a pause, John wrapped one arm under Sam's shoulders, bent down and slid his other arm under Sam's knees, braced himself and scooped his son up.

**-o-**

**Reviews are love.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary:** An accident, a concussion, things quickly spiral out of control for Sam. Teen Winchesters. Sam 15, Dean 19.

**Warning:** Occasional swearing.

**Notes:** All the reviews have brought me so much joy and inspiration – thank you. I feel awful that once again I didn't reply to them, but please know how much I cherish them all.

_Supernaturaldh_ was my amazing beta – words can't describe her awesomeness.

**Chapter 5**

John looked at his son, baggy hospital gown hanging loosely on his body, his skin almost white as it blended into the starched hospital sheets. It had been a close call, too close, and for that, he felt the burden of blame. He still hadn't got the full story, hadn't wanted to push Sam when he was in so much pain, but he knew the basics – Sam had been hit by a car, a damn hit and run driver, who hadn't even stopped to make sure his boy was okay. It was a story the hospital staff were not so receptive to, regardless of its truth.

"You know we have to do this Dean." John reaffirmed; dropping his voice a little when the words seemed to echo through the room.

"Shhhh," Dean cautioned, as Sam moaned and twitched on the bed, "you'll wake him up."

Dean looked between Sam and his Dad. "Maybe we should wait, you know, one more day, just to be sure."

"One more day? We don't have one more day. We're pushing things as it is." John cringed at the reminder of the looks the doctors had shot his way, the sidelong glances he'd been given by the nursing staff, the whispers he'd overheard. He knew what they were thinking, what they were likely to do, if they hadn't done so already.

"What about Sam dad? What about what's best for him? He was hemorrhaging internally. No, it's too risky; he's only just come out of surgery, he should stay here." Dean shook his head.

"I'm doing this _for_ Sam." John retorted, trying to hold onto his temper.

"He wouldn't even be here if you hadn't made him run all the way across town like some damn soldier. He's a kid dad, a kid…" Dean's hands quivered, his heart racing, as he struggled to squelch down his anger with his Dad.

John cringed at the accusation, but knowing his son was right didn't change what needed to be done. "You heard the doc; he said Sam came through the procedure just fine. Should make a full recovery were his exact words."

"Yeah well, maybe you missed the part where he mentioned that Sam would be spending at least the first week of that recovery right here in the hospital."

"Sam can recover just as well someplace else."

"No Dad, he needs more time …he's not exactly up to walking around yet, let alone making a run for it, and what about his medications and anything else he might need?" Dean queried, casting an uneasy glance at his father.

"I 'requisitioned' anything I thought he might need." John tapped his bulging pockets.

Dean looked at his dad with incredulity. "Yeah well, you can't just unhook Sam from," Dean waved at all the medical machinery, "all that and walk him out of here."

"What do you take me for?" John snapped, not waiting for an answer. "I'll sneak him out the fire exit. What I need, is for you to create a distraction."

"A distraction?" Dean muttered, regretting the question as soon as it slipped from his lips.

"Yeah," John replied, outlining his plans to slip Sam discretely out of the hospital. He'd be the first to admit that he didn't like the idea of taking his son out before he was ready, but the alternatives were not an option. Child services were sure to be called in and he needed to stay one step ahead or risk losing Sam for good.

**-o-**

Sam blinked groggily from the back seat, trying to stretch out his too-long legs that were bunched awkwardly against the door. It was like trying to sleep in a cot, not enough room to roll over, stretch, hell, he didn't even have the benefit of being able to let his feet hang over the edge. He was crammed in like a sardine.

Last thing he remembered was waking up in the hospital, groggy and nauseous, before drifting back to sleep. He closed his eyes before opening them again slowly. Nothing had changed. He was definitely in the back seat of the Impala. He recognized the familiar rumble of the engine.

He swallowed back bile as the Impala glided around a wide bend before straightening again. Usually he found the rhythm of the car soothing, liked to close his eyes and feel the engine vibrate, but not today. Today every small movement jarred, sending tiny shock-waves of pain through his body, along every nerve ending, and he had to bite down hard on his lips to prevent the moans from escaping.

He hurt. Really hurt. The type of pain that that felt as though his body was tortured, ripped apart, from the inside out.

He tried twisting again, but there was nowhere to go, no relief from the overwhelming pain.

"Dean?" He moaned for help, a croaky whisper escaping with his exhaled breath.

"Sam." Dean cast a quick glance backwards, easing his foot off the accelerator as he guided the car towards the shoulder of the road. "Just hang on, you're alright, I'm right here."

Sam felt the Impala slow, but it was too late. Bile rushed up the back of his throat, shocking him with its intensity. He tried to lever himself up, but he was like a newborn colt, all loose gangly limbs and not enough control. He gagged and choked, as the meager contents of his stomach emptied themselves all down the hospital gown, the blanket, and the upholstered seat of the Impala. _Dean was going to kill him._

**-o-**

Dean brought the car to a stop as quickly and smoothly as he could, before jumping out and wrenching open the rear door to get to his brother. Sam was a mess.

"Sorry," Sam whispered.

"Hey, you got nothing to be sorry about." Dean leant in and placed his palm on Sam's forehead, checking his warmth. "If anyone's goin' to be apologizing 'round here it's me and dad, so I don't want to hear it okay?" Dean sighed, pulling off the soaked blanket.

Dean crouched down by the open door of the Impala, and using his own shirt as a rag, he cleaned up Sam the best he could.

Sam looked up at his brother, unable to hide the tremor of fear in his voice. "Dean, what's happening? Where's dad?"

"Dad should be along any minute. He's following close behind, or supposed to be. Drives like a goddamn geriatric if you ask me." Dean smiled conspiringly. "But don't you dare tell him I said that."

"Where're we going?"

"Dad thought it would be a good idea to get out of town before people started asking questions, you know …about everything." He gave Sam a small smile. "Was probably time to start thinking about moving on anyway, you know how dad gets, all jittery and restless if we stay in the one place too long." Dean looked off down the highway as he saw the black truck heading towards them.

"Here's dad now. He's got all your meds so I'll get you something for the pain, okay?" Dean could see the tight lines of pain on Sam's face, even though Sam hadn't said anything.

Sam reached out and grabbed Dean's hand as his brother made a move to stand. "Dean, how much further?" He asked, praying that they didn't have far to go.

"Not far, not far at all, alright? Give me a sec to go talk with dad. I'll be right back, okay?"

"'Kay," Sam mumbled, releasing Dean's hand.

**-o-**

John pulled up behind the Impala, opening the window and leaning out as Dean jogged to his side. "Everything okay?"

Dean leant a hand against the side of the truck and looked at his dad. "Sam hurled in the car."

John glanced around Dean to look at the Impala, trying to catch a glimpse of Sam. "He okay?" John reached down to push open his door.

"Yeah, I think so." Dean confirmed. "He's hurting, though he hasn't said as much."

John jumped out of the truck and strode the short distance towards the Impala, Dean close by his side. "There's a town a couple miles further down, we'll find a motel and call it a day. Reckon we've put enough distance between us and the hospital, no need to keep driving if we don't have to." John glanced at his watch. "Sam's due his meds anyway and a decent cup of coffee wouldn't go astray."

The odor of Sam's sickness hit him before his eyes gazed on the evidence. "Hey Sam," John ran a hand through Sam's hair, brushing it back off his face. "We're going to pull in at a motel few miles down. Shouldn't be more than another ten minutes; tops. We'll get you cleaned up; give you something for the pain, okay?"

"Okay," Sam whispered.

"Good boy." John slid his fingers through Sam's hair again before straightening up, stretching the kinks out of his body.

John let his eyes rest on Sam for a few moments before looking back at Dean. "We'll pull off at the next exit. Get a room for a couple of days."

Dean nodded, pleased. "Sounds good."

**-o-**

Dean sat impatiently in the Impala, waiting for their dad to check them in to the motel. The odor of sickness was almost over-powering, but the breeze outside was sharp and crisp and he was lax to open his window more than a crack, fearing that Sam would feel the chill.

"Dean?" Sam questioned from the back seat.

"Yeah Sam, we're here, dad's just getting the key. Just hang on for one more minute, okay?"

"Yeah," Sam mumbled, screwing up his face at the vile smell permeating through the car, gagging as his eyes drifted to the splatters of vomit.

Hearing the sound, Dean leaned over the seat to check on Sam."You okay?"

Sam swallowed, looking up at Dean. "It stinks back here," he croaked.

"Yeah well, you did the redecorating." Dean cringed at the sight, before turning back around. "Here's dad now." Dean watched as their dad walked back to the truck.

Following their dad, Dean parked the Impala beside the truck, in front of what he presumed was going to be their home for the next few days. Right now, he was just happy to be getting out of the car, and he felt sure Sam was just as eager. Getting Sam out of the back seat and into the room was going to be another matter altogether, and Dean couldn't help wishing that Sam could have been asleep for this ordeal as well, to spare him the pain the short trip was going to cause.

"I'll get Sam, you unload the gear." John instructed, tossing his eldest the room key before opening the rear door of the Impala.

"I'll help," Dean hovered by the side of the car.

"I've got it." John persisted. "Just grab the gear …and bring in the supplies I got from the hospital, they're in the front of the truck."

Leaning down, John looked at his youngest, struggling to push himself upwards on the rear seat. Reaching in, he hooked a hand under Sam's arm, helping to slowly pull him into a seated position. "Nice and slow Sam, nice and slow. Let me do all the work here son, don't want you tearing those stitches." John could see the strain on Sam's face as perspiration built up on his forehead, the effort of just moving taking its toll.

"I can do it." Sam gasped.

"Not saying you can't do it son, just let me help, okay?" John soothed.

Sam nodded, reaching out to clasp his dad's arm, holding on as he was levered up and out of the car.

Sam's knees buckled, unwilling to support his weight, and he staggered into his dad. Strong arms reached out, wrapping themselves around him, impeding his descent. He collapsed against the strength, closing his eyes as he felt himself lifted and carried, giving up without protest.

**-o-**

John took the empty glass of water from Sam, relived that he'd swallowed down the pills without difficulty, and kept them down.

It wasn't been easy stripping Sam of his stained hospital garb, or cleaning him with a damp cloth before slipping him into fresh boxers and tee-shirt. Sam had the awkward embarrassment of an adolescent, but for John, it only brought back memories of when Sam was a toddler, so innocent and trusting.

He couldn't help but wonder when that had all changed. Was there a defining moment, or had the transition been gradual, the innocence and trust just slipping away. When had Sam stopped coming to him, confiding in him, needing him? When had he stopped listening?

When had he stopped being a parent?

He glanced up as the door opened, Dean pushing through, balancing two cups of coffee and a couple of bags of food. He pushed up, off the edge of Sam's bed, meeting Dean half-way across the room and snagging one of the cups, flipping off the lid and taking a large gulp of the steaming brew. It flowed like honey down his throat and he closed his eyes for a moment and savored the bitter taste. Heaven.

He looked across the room as Dean unpacked the rest of his purchases, not surprised to see burgers and fries, sandwiches and snack foods. Enough to feed a small army; or two growing boys.

Dean unwrapped the sandwich, "plain cheese, is that okay?" Dean looked across at his little brother, running a concerned eye over him.

"I'm not that hungry." Sam replied.

"Yeah well, you have to eat something, at least half okay?" Dean carried the sandwich to the bed, placing half on the nightstand and holding the other half out to Sam. "Eat," he ordered.

Sam took a small bite, chewing slowly.

Satisfied Sam was doing as he was told, Dean headed back to the table, sitting down to start on his own food. John followed, figuring he'd better start now or risk losing his share to Dean's endless appetite.

Both men ate in silence, eyes never straying far from Sam.

Dean couldn't hold back a grin as Sam's eyes drifted shut, chewed portions of sandwich falling from his mouth. "Looks like those pills kicked in," he whispered, getting up and walking over to Sam. Picking up Sam's half chewed food with a grimace; he tossed the scraps onto the nightstand, before easing Sam down flat on to the bed.

"He's like an overgrown toddler." Dean observed, sitting back down opposite his father.

"With the stubbornness of an eighty year old." John remarked, placing his half eaten hamburger on the table and leaning back in his chair. He massaged his temples with his fingers, trying to ease the tiredness – it had been a rough couple of days.

He looked across at Dean, noticing how his eyes never strayed far from Sam. "He's going to be okay Dean. "

"This time ...this time we were lucky. He was bleeding out, right in front of me, and I didn't do a damn thing about it." Dean pushed the rest of his food aside, suddenly losing his appetite.

"We couldn't have known. Hell, he didn't say anything -"

"He didn't have the chance, we didn't give him one. We should have noticed, picked up that something was wrong."

"Christ, don't you think I know that Dean? Don't you think I wish I could turn back the clock and change things?"

"We nearly lost him dad. If we'd waited a couple more hours, things…"

"But we didn't Dean, and he's going to be alright."

Dean looked forlornly at their Dad, biting back the accusations he wanted to fling. He sighed as he stood up and walked back over to Sam, lowering himself gently down on the bed beside his kid brother. He rested his back against the headboard, listening to Sam's even breathing, watching without surprise as his father pulled his journal out of his duffel and started flipping through the pages.

He stared back down at Sam, his face now relaxed in sleep, and he let his hand tug absently through Sam's long chestnut locks. He didn't think he would ever understand their Dad, or his need to put the hunt before anything else. The only thing he did know; it was his job to put Sam first, and from now on, that is exactly what he was going to do.

**End.**

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